A New Kind Of Pain
by NotFlyingWithOtters
Summary: Sherlock was quite accustomed to pain thank you very much; but he'd never felt pain like this. Emotional pain was not something Sherlock was accustomed to. He realised what he'd been denying all along. He loved John and probably had since the first day.
1. Chapter 1

**This chapter is full of angst, but, somewhere in my tired brain there is a solution to this angst and when I've finished writing this it will occur.  
>Ship: at the moment JohnSarah but as this chapter dwells on Sherlock it will change  
>Word count: 1256 (this chapter)<br>Please review? (: And as always, enjoy.  
>AN: I write angst when I'm depressed**

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><p>It wasn't that Sherlock hadn't felt pain before, quite the contrary he was always getting hurt and risking his life, no, Sherlock was quite accustomed to pain thank you very much; but he'd never felt pain like this. Emotional pain was not something Sherlock was accustomed to. But now, seeing John and Sarah holding hands and sharing a kiss now and then he realised what he'd been denying all along. He loved John. His heart thumped fiercely and he longed to pull John away and tell him everything, scream it at him until he was hoarse. As this flashed through his mind, he turned away and thought he saw a flicker of sadness in John's eyes as he took off running, away from Sarah and John and away from everyone else.<p>

His ran until his sides burned, his eyes welled up and his throat felt curiously thick. He placed his hands on his knees and breathed heavily, drawing as much air into his lungs as he could and wiping his tears away. His phone buzzed and he ignored it, shaking all over with jealousy and pain. He had hoped his furtive looks at John in their time living together had made him notice, how he stood too close to him than was normal for normal people and all the signs had been there. John seemed oblivious to everything Sherlock had wanted to show him and it hurt. His chest felt queerly tight and his hands were shaking, ripples running under his skin. His phone vibrated again and this time he checked it, the two messages from two different people. The first was from John.

_Are you okay? You looked distraught. _

Dismissing it, he flicked through and looked at the next one.

_J__ohn said you ran off, part of a case? Call me if it is - Lestrade._

Sherlock felt a bubble of emotion grow through his chest. Dismissing Lestrade, he replied to John.

_I have to go. You have my credit card and don't worry. I'll be back eventually –SH_

Shortly after he sent it, his phone buzzed again but he ignored it. Knowing John would get Mycroft to trace him through his phone; he made his way to the nearest bank of the Thames and launched it over the wall. Still trembling, he hailed a cab and dived inside, relaying an address and staying low as the cab pulled out of London and away from everything that he knew.

It took a while to get away from London, traffic and the fact that it was rush hour when they left meant that it was gone eight o'clock when they finally arrived at a small village, somewhere a fair way away from London. Sherlock paid the man, tipped him generously and made his way to the local inn, the landlady knew him; once, in the days before John, he had cleared her son of all charges laid down against him by a gang. He swept inside, not looking where he was going until he was at the bar and could see the landlady staring at him, a grin stretching her face. She wasn't beautiful as such, but there was something about her that made the breath of many die in their throats and something striking that meant people followed her every move through a crowd. Everyone, that is, but Sherlock. She swooped down on him and placed a quick kiss on both cheeks, grinning radiantly.

"Sherlock dear, how are you keeping? Still as skinny as ever I see. Same as always?"

"Hello Laura." Sherlock managed a smile from somewhere. "Yes, please, my usual room at the usual rate, I'll pay weekly." He flashed a grin at her, something he didn't feel.

"Staying for a long time then?" Her smile wavered for a moment and then it was back, false and fixed, showing the smudge of lipstick on her teeth. _Applied hastily_ Sherlock thought, eyes on her angular face.

"A while." He murmured evasively, and after that she handed him a key and a card with all the phone numbers for the inn and the village on and made to lead him to his room. "I know where it is, Laura." Still remaining calm, he pulled a smile from nowhere and disappeared up some rickety stairs and kept on going up until he reached the top floor of the inn and pulled a small ladder down from the ceiling. He scrambled up it and was welcomed by the old attic room he used to live in before John and before Baker Street, just after he'd been hurt so badly. He lay down on the small bed and just stared at the wooden ceiling, watching the dark red curtains move in the slight breeze. His eyes closed but he wouldn't sleep. Not tonight. Tears were prickling beneath his lids and he didn't try to fight it, but he stuffed the corner of the plain white duvet in his mouth and bit down, stifling his low whines.

It took a long time before he even tried to move, his hands clenched around his pillow, cheeks wet with tears and his hair damp with sweat, the black curls sticking to his cheek. When he did move he was in agony from being in the same position for so long, all of his long limbs clenched and tight. He made his way to the window, leaning out of it and breathing in the surprisingly cool air for summer. There was a scent in the air that stung in his nostrils and he ducked back inside, closing the window and stuffing his hands in his pockets. His fingernails of his left hand got snagged in something soft and he pulled it out of his pocket, dropping it the moment he saw what it was. It was a scarf. John's scarf. He remembered vividly how it got in its pocket.

_It had been a cold morning, but it wasn't any more, in fact the frost had already melted and it was only eleven am. John and Sherlock were walking towards a crime scene, uncomfortably warm in the scarves and jackets they were wearing. John hung by the edge of the crime scene as Sherlock did his thing, carefully relaying everything back to Lestrade and then turning back to John, a quirk of his lips telling him everything he needed to know. Sherlock, now finished, walked back towards John and John handed him the scarf that had been wrapped tightly around his neck._

"_It's too warm and I don't have any pockets." He muttered by way of explanation. Sherlock took it, slipping it into his pocket and almost instantly forgetting about it._

And now here he was, fifty miles from London with the scarf in his hand. It had been in his coat since February and now, as he pulled it from the depths of his pocket, he raised it to his face. It still smelled like him, musky and faintly of deodorant and aftershave, but beneath it all was a smell that was so delectably him that it couldn't be identified. Sherlock staggered back to the bed and kept the small folded piece of cloth in his hands, hoping to god, or whatever power there was in the universe, that this would fend off the nightmares the way John did by simply existing. As he began to fall asleep, he realised that it wasn't enough and that for the first time since John moved in, he'd have to face the nightmares alone.

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><p><strong>Angst galore. I apologize. I'm sleepy. More to come<strong>

**Please tell me what you think (:**

**Much much love**

**Erin  
><strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**From John's point of view now, a fair bit of angst and some guilt plus and interesting conversation with Mycroft.  
>Word count: 1199 (this chapter)<br>Please review? (: And as always, enjoy.  
>AN: I write angst when I'm depressed. Still am I'm afraid. Angsty goodness for you all.  
><strong>

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><p>John had seen something in Sherlock's eyes as he ran off, had seen a flicker of… something. It eluded him what this flicker was, and shortly after receiving the text, he panicked. He tried to call Sherlock but got no response, and when he texted again there was no reply. Sarah was hanging onto his arm and pouting moodily as he tried desperately to get in touch with his flatmate, and, after the fifth time of the phone going straight to voicemail, he lost his temper. She had been batting her eyelashes and giggling, hanging onto his arm as though nothing was wrong and trying to kiss him. He lost his temper abruptly.<p>

"Sarah! Now is not the time!" And then he'd left, dived into the next cab he could find and returned to Baker Street. He did not expect to see Sherlock back here, but it was still a surprise when he opened the door to silence. The flat was never silent, usually there was some kind of noise, the TV, Sherlock playing the violin, an experiment, the kettle boiling or just Sherlock moving around. But now there was nothing to signify that anyone lived there at all except from the clutter. John realised with a sinking heart the Sherlock had not come home. He looked around, partially wondering as to why nothing had been moved, and then he realized that Sherlock hadn't returned to Baker Street before leaving; he'd just run.

John ran his fingers idly over the violin case lying open on the table, fingertips smoothing the taught strings and the varnished wood, remembering the beautiful sounds that Sherlock had coaxed from it and also the horrendous noises he had made when he was upset. It was a slight gesture that John made, running his fingertips over the smooth surface and then shivering, leaving behind faint patches of perspiration on the instrument that faded almost as soon as they appeared. John tore his gaze from the instrument and then moved away, into the kitchen. He placed a hand on the kettle and felt that it was stone cold, with a sinking feeling he was now sure that Sherlock hadn't been home, and in a rash and unexpected decision had just run away.

John slipped through the flat, his eyes on anything that indicated Sherlock was prepared for wherever he was going, but he saw no such sign. Despite knowing full well that Sherlock wasn't in, hadn't come home, he still paused on the threshold of the bedroom and felt a strong pull to knock even though there was no one there. He placed his palm flat on the bedroom door and carefully pushed it open, depressing the handle at the same time. He didn't know what he had expected of Sherlock, but it wasn't this.

Clutter, everywhere. Piles and piles of books, tottering and leaning against his desk and the bottom of his bed, against the walls and spread all over the carpet. There wasn't much to see of the carpet, just a flash of dark blue every now and again where papers had been strewn about. A rack of test tubes with some foul looking liquid sat on the windowsill, the thick drapes drawn back away from the window. John looked in despair at the desk, where a laptop rested, closed and covered in a thin film of dust.

"So he does have one…" John grumbled and moved away, though a strange pang in his chest reminded him that he didn't really mind that Sherlock used his. He reached the cluttered desk and ran his fingers over the stacks of paper on there, picking out phrases and imagining them falling from Sherlock's lips. Then he saw ones that scared him, and with a fingertip he moved a sheet of binary code off of the top.

_I feel them. Hurts. Even though they aren't there. They still hurt me. Make it stop.  
><em>

The writing looked as though scrawled in a sleepy haze and John shuddered to think what it meant. The writing had faded now though, so it had to be old, and looking around the room, a final cursory sweep, he noticed no more writing in the same terrifying scrawl and sighed. He slipped out of the bedroom and closed the door. Then he reached for his phone and called the number he never wanted to use. Mycroft. He picked up after the first ring.

"Ah John, I assumed my brother has done something. What is it?" As usual he hit the problem head on and John faltered for a moment, but only a moment.

"He ran. He saw me with Sarah and he took off. He won't answer his phone." There was a silence from the other end, almost as though Mycroft was deliberating something.

"Yes, well, my surveillance team realsed the GPS system in his phone had gone offline, and it rang alarm bells. It took less than half an hour to ascertain through the CCTV and camera monitoring we had on him that he had thrown his phone into the Thames. A pity, it was a nice model. And you say he hasn't come home at all?" John ground his teeth in frustration.

"I never said that." There was a long drawn out sigh, almost theatrical from Mycroft.

"I may not be the genius my brother is but I can put two and two together, and my surveillance team have told me everything there is to know. You called me because you're worried that he's not come home." John, used to Sherlock, ignored trying to follow the cognitive processes that meant Mycroft could figure it out and just moved on swiftly.

"Do you know where he is?" John asked, practically spitting sparks down the phone.

"I have an idea, I will be at 221b Baker Street shortly to collect some of his items and if I'm right then he shall have them with him so you can get in contact… if I'm wrong, well, that shouldn't happen." John could almost hear the smug git smiling and he slammed the phone down before flipping his laptop open and composing an email, typing rapidly.

_Sherlock you bastard come home. I'm worried. I called Mycroft for god's sake! Just come home. And  
><em>

John paused for a second before typing the last words, his eyes on the screen and a curious prickling sensation down the back of his neck

_What did you mean when you said "It still hurts. Make it stop."?_

Before he could have any more reservations, he pressed send. Then he sat back in his chair with a grimace and stared at the ceiling, one hand folding his laptop closed. The flat felt empty without Sherlock's presence, as though a part of the atmosphere was missing. As irritating as Sherlock could be, John missed him being around, insulting everything on the TV and watching John eat. John felt a pang in his stomach and wondered whether Sherlock was eating. Somehow he didn't think so. Or sleeping, judging by the amount he knew him. Sherlock was not one to get emotional, but when he did it was catastrophic. John was worried for his safety.

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><p><strong>Angst galore. I apologize. I'm sleepy. More to come<strong>

**Please tell me what you think (:**

**Much much love**

**Erin  
><strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Back to Sherlock, the memory is my idea only and also, just to be sure, Sherlock can feel the pain even though it isn't there, that point is vital.  
>Word count: 1340 (this chapter)<br>Please review? (: And as always, enjoy.  
>AN: I have not read the Sherlock Holmes stories and I am going just by BBC Sherlock (I am reading Hound Of The Baskervilles right now though, or I will when I dig it out of one of the many boxes in my house) and I do not know Sherlock's backstory except that he was a drug addict so I made up the memory and I hope you don't hate me for it.  
><strong>

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><p><em>"Hey, freak!" Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around him, tugged his scarf and turned his collar up, keeping his head down. He could hear them; they were behind him, fuelled on cheap alcohol and a desire to impress. "I said; hey freak!" They practically screamed it at him and he made his first mistake. He turned around. They were closer than he thought, and before the adrenaline began kicking in for his "fight or flight" reaction a fist had connected with the side of his face. He reeled backwards, tripped by one of the group that had gone round behind him and he hit the ground, winded, black lights bursting in front of his eyes. He was pulled roughly up, and held close with his back against the chest of the tallest, wrists being bound with a rough material. He felt a cough rise in his throat, but before he could sort it, a ball of cotton material was shoved into his mouth and then he was gagged. He was pulled along into an alley and then thrown to the ground, wincing as his ribs hit the harsh concrete.<em>

_"Freak!" Spat one of the men and Sherlock whipped his head around, trying to ignore what was going on._

_"You might wonder why we aren't blindfolding you, but I'm sure you know already." Another leered, and Sherlock swallowed roughly, protesting at the thing in his mouth. Sherlock longed to bite out a short and derisive snap as to why he knew they weren't blindfolding him, but he was scared; more so that he would admit. _

_"But we'll tell you anyway." Came another voice, the final voice. There was only four of them, but they were all bigger, brawnier and stronger than Sherlock; and had an advantage since Sherlock could hardly move now. _

_"So you can remember it." The first man drawled, and Sherlock knew, instinctively, that those words would haunt him for the rest of his life. They circled round him and he desperately tried to curl up in the fetal position, but the way he was bound made that impossible._

_The first hit knocked the breath out of him, the second fractured his rib, and the third drew tears in his eyes. It hurt more than he'd anticipated, and as each kick came, an insult was hurled with it. "Gay!" came with a sharp dig to the ribs. "Faggot!" Was coupled with the crunch of his ribs cracking. And then one of them drew a knife. Sherlock whimpered, half blinded by pain and incapacitated. The first cut drew a thin line of blood down his hips, and then when he bucked, trying to remove this unwelcome presence, they converged on him. Two of them sat on him and another drew his shirt up, the knife pressed tightly against his stomach muscles. Sherlock whimpered, eyes filled with salty tears that wouldn't run down his face, even broken and battered he wouldn't give them that satisfaction. They held him down and crudely carved "Freak" into his stomach, each fresh press of the knife causing a muscle spasm in his stomach as he bucked and rolled his hips, trying to get away from them. Blood was rolling down his stomach and stained the white of his shirt and he felt the tears he had tried so hard to push away and not shed roll over his face. They took one look at his face, cut the wrist bindings and ripped the gag out. _

_"Scream all you like, pretty boy, no one will come." The tallest whispered, and Sherlock saw the green eyes, so bright and alive, full of malice, glint in the low lighting. Sherlock closed his own and began whimpering as the footsteps vanished. He reached out for something to grab a hold on and found only pavement, hard and unyielding. That was when he began to cry, loud and uncontrolled, and finally, mercifully, blacked out._

Sherlock awoke, breathing heavily; sweat pouring over his back and down his face, shivering in the warm air and reaching out. It hadn't been that vivid since John had whirled into his life, started sharing his flat. But now, it was suddenly more vivid than it had ever been and he could feel the pain. All of it. He could feel the sting and bite of the knife even though it wasn't there and he could feel it still. Desperately, he tried to make himself think, believe that there was no one there, because there wasn't. But he could still feel it, the sting of the blows, and the steady roll of blood down his body. He bit back a cry and curled up tighter, still feeling the rough cord around his wrists. There were tears on his cheeks, and the spasms in his stomach were so bad he felt like he was going to vomit.

His hand reached down, expecting to feel the warm rush of blood, but he only felt skin, warm and damp to the touch. His fingers traced the barely-there lines of scar that still read "freak" in jagged, disjointed handwriting. He shuddered at the touch and then stood, creeping along to the tiny bathroom and running a deluge of hot water, scaldingly hot, and then stepping under it. It was this memory that had lead him to the drugs before, made him need to forget. The drugs had been a fall back, made him soften the edges of the memory and dream of nothing at all. He had purposefully tried to overdose, but Mycroft had found him and demanded he go to rehab. And he had, he'd felt better, he'd got a new place. And then he'd got John. But there was nothing that took away the sting like John, and now he was gone, all Sherlock wanted was the drugs again. He wanted to lose his mind and just try to forget.

The shower helped, it really helped, and he felt himself unwinding, felt the hands and knife that had been holding him leave his body. He sat under the torrent of water, expecting the water to be red every time he looked down and was disconcerted when he saw no bruises or fresh cuts across him. Eventually he got out, wrapping a towel around him and drying quickly before slipping into his suit again and gripping John's scarf tightly. After a while, when the sun had been up for a long time, there was a tap on the loft hatch and Laura poked her head through.

"Your brother, Sherlock." She smiled warmly and Sherlock nodded curtly, pulling his knees up to his chest. Mycroft appeared a few minutes later, poking his head through the trapdoor and then scaling the ladder as easily as he could with a bag on his shoulder.

"Sherlock…" Sherlock whimpered and turned away, holding up a hand for Mycroft to stop.

"Don't. Please. Just don't." Mycroft walked over to the bed and placed the bag on it, a hand ghosting over Sherlock's shoulder and then it was gone.

"Sherlock you can't stay here forever, I know you want to but you can't. You have to go back soon. John's worried about you." Sherlock nodded and kept himself turned away. He heard Mycroft leave and then unwound his legs, reaching for the bag that Mycroft had produced. He felt the familiar shape of his laptop and drew it out, unfolding it and logging on quickly. The first thing he did was check his email and as he did he recoiled in horror. The sick feeling that had been rising since the morning suddenly overtook him and he bolted into the bathroom, emptying his stomach of what little was in there. Whimpering, he wiped a shaking hand over his mouth and racked his brains, the words sticking in the forefront of his mind.

_What did you mean when you said "It still hurts. Make it stop."?_

Sherlock shook all over and curled up, breathing in the slight scent of John on the scarf.

_How did he know?_

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><p><strong>Angst and pain. I AM A HORRIBLE PERSON I'M SO SORRY.<br>**

**Please tell me what you think (:**

**Much much love**

**Erin  
><strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Back to John, and a shorter chapter (not by much) but I wanted to get back to writing Sherlock because I characterise him better.  
>Word count: 1282 (this chapter)<br>Please review? (: And as always, enjoy.  
>AN: I really hope I managed to keep this in character and also sorry for the delay (my muse buggered off for two days and came back smelling of cheap aftershave and cigarettes. We had words) but hopefully I'll get back into a pattern of updating regularly again.**

**I do not own anything and all of my stories are unbeta'd except the first two chapters of this one, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.**

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><p>John sighed impatiently as he flipped his laptop open and saw no reply from Sherlock. It had been a week, and this feeling of worry was worsening by the day, as he thought about it he felt a heavy weight of worry slide into his chest like ice and sit there, poisoning his mind. Idly, he wondered whether he'd turned to the drugs again, but quickly dispelled the notion and concentrated on keeping his mind from wandering too much.<p>

He went back into his room and dressed, smartly grabbing his ID for the surgery and pulling on his work clothes before walking out of their flat; only it didn't feel like their flat when Sherlock wasn't in it, it felt very much like when he had been in Afghanistan and someone had died and their bunk hadn't been cleared yet, it was that same emptiness and it made his chest ache. Sadly he left the flat and locked the door behind him, slipping the key into his inside pocket, running his fingertips over the bevelled edge and the letting it drop, cradled by the smooth fabric.

It was a ten minute bus ride to the surgery, but John walked, every now and then catching a glimpse of a tall man with black hair and imagining it was Sherlock before he realized that it wasn't and felt a familiar spread of disappointment. It took half an hour to walk to work, and when he signed in, Sarah immediately pressed a file into his arms and glared solidly at him. He sighed, knowing that it wasn't all resolved and he would have a lot of explaining to do when Sherlock returned, not before.

He hated Sherlock so much for leaving. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he needed his sociopath as much as Sherlock needed him, his blogger. He flipped the file and saw that he was needed in one of the rooms, as the emergency doctor. As usual. He slipped into the room and logged onto one of the surgery's old computers, the wheezing sound it emitted was slightly disconcerting. He waited patiently for the first emergency case of the day.

After about fifteen minutes, a man walked in, long black hair and fairly tall, piercing grey eyes. John nearly fainted until he realised that the man had a round face, not sculpted with high arched cheekbones like Sherlock, and the hair was the wrong shade of black, almost a dark brown. And then he spotted the tattoo on the man's neck and breathed out, visibly.

"How can I help you?" It was a sheer effort of will to keep his voice steady and his eyes on the man's face.

"I have this pain, like, in my hand, I shut it in a door I mean is that serious or…" And then John realised he was too young, mid-twenties at the most. John sighed inwardly.

"It's best if you go to the hospital and get an x-ray, just in case." John smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile and handed the boy a slip of paper. The boy smiled and left, and John felt the weight of sadness slide further down his chest. Deciding that he had to find Sherlock, and fast, he got up and left the room, switching the computer off and heading to the desk. Unfortunately, Sarah was manning the desk and John felt a stab of nervousness. He reached the desk and placed the palm of his hand on it.

"John." She muttered coolly, glaring at him over the plastic topped desk and he nearly backed down and went back to work, but steeled himself.

"Sarah. I need to get the week off. I'm so sorry but I need to find Sherlock, and I need to find him now. Right now. I'm worried and I'm sorry, everything you said to me a couple days ago was true. He always comes first. And I'm sorry but I need to find him." Sarah looked at him, agape. She seemed to not be able to talk for a moment, and then found her voice, sounding strangely tired.

"I know John, I suppose I've known this all along. You really care about him, I understand that. And you need to find him, I hope you do because this worry is eating you up, I see it in your eyes." John wasn't expecting this prophetic outburst from her, and he stopped short, merely observing her.

"I… thank you. I'm sorry." Was all he managed, and then turned away, walking brusquely out of the surgery and towards the air outside. He got outside and made the brisk walk back home, home that didn't feel like home. He sighed as he got inside, resting his forehead against the door and straining his ears the way he had for the past week, in the vain hope that Sherlock would be home. There was only the drip of the faucet where he hadn't turned it off properly, and the sound of his laptop humming away on the sofa. He was feeling gradually more annoyed and he reached for his mobile, quickly keying in the number that he hated using and lifting it to his ear.

"John." Mycroft's voice was collected, as always, and John felt a stab of dislike run through him.

"Where is he?" It wasn't a question; it was barely concealed rage and worry from the past seven days coming to a head inside his mind. He could hear Mycroft sighing on the other end of the phone. "Tell me now or so help me I'll…" Do what exactly? He didn't know, just something that would make Mycroft tell him.

"John he doesn't want to see anyone." Mycroft murmured, as if explaining simple mathematics to a young child that didn't want to believe that two plus two made four. John bristled, feeling anger roll over him in crashing, deafening waves.

"Well I need to see him. I need to know he's okay. Mycroft he won't have eaten won't have slept and you know I'm the only one that he listens to when we tell him he has to. Please, Mycroft. Please." John had begun pleading, sounding almost world weary. He waited for what seemed an age for Mycroft's reply, and he was alarmed at how hesitant it was.

"Okay. My brother needs you, he doesn't know it but I do. He needs you. I'll text you the address; and I'll pay the cab fare for you. As I recall it is fairly expensive." John sighed, and then shifted from foot to foot for a moment.

"Thank you. He needs me… and god help me I need him." That seemed to have shocked Mycroft and it took a few moments for John to receive a reply from the other end of the phone, and when he did, Mycroft's voice was strained.

"Tell the cab to come to the second address I'll send you for the payment." There was audible swallowing from Mycroft's end of the line and then a very long pause before he spoke again. "And look after him, John." It seemed almost an afterthought.

"Of course I will. Text me that address." John hung up the phone and after a few moments, the text came through, followed by another, for the cab driver to receive payment. John stepped out of the flat after five minutes, a small bag packed with some clothes and money, and a couple of Sherlock's things that Mycroft had neglected to take. Then he hailed a cab, relayed the address and slunk down in the backseat, hoping that Sherlock would be all right until he got there.

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><p><strong>Is Mycroft in character? I worry...<strong>

**Review if you have the time (:**

**Much much love**

**Erin  
><strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Sherlock again~ mostly flashbacks and stuff but hopefully still readable  
>Word count: 1256 (this chapter)<br>Please review? (: And as always, enjoy.  
>AN: This chapter has been avoiding me for days, being elusive and annoying and such like, but now it's back, finally, and I've half written the next one already :3 so a new update as soon as it's done.**

**I do not own anything and all of my stories are unbeta'd except the first two chapters of this one, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.**

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><p>For Sherlock, it had been the longest week of his life. Every night he'd tried to stay up, but inadvertently slipped into a doze or a daydream and jolted awake, skin cool and clammy with sweat and a sick feeling in his stomach as he tried not to feel their blows and pain. He doubled over most times and just laid still on the bed, trying not to move, spark pain throughout his body. And when he finally felt strong enough to move, he would open his laptop, pause and deliberate over updating his blog, and then check his email.<p>

John's email still made him feel sick to his stomach, and more often than not, if he had just woken from the violent dream, the sick feeling would be too much and he'd run to the bathroom, emptying his stomach of all contents. He hardly ate, and most of what he ate would make a surprise reappearance anyway, so he didn't bother mostly. His sleep was plagued with nightmares, and mostly he just lay awake, staring at the plain ceiling before he felt them creeping back in and jolted awake suddenly.

Now, after a week, he had expected it to get better but it hadn't, if anything it had got worse. He sat on the bed, hardly able to move because he was weaker than he'd been, his whole body crying out for sustenance but he was reluctant to eat anything, knowing that it would most likely not stay down. His mind flipped back to a few days ago, when he'd gone out into the village, hoping the fresh air and friendliness of the people would help banish his nightmares.

_They were friendly, they smiled as he walked past and he regarded them, lips pressed in a tight line. His stomach hurt as though the cut had reopened, but it wasn't there, there was just a thin line of pale scar tissue which did not hurt. It was in his mind. He forcibly reminded himself of this by making a fist and trapping his thumb so that it hurt, brought him back to reality with a sharp jolt. He slipped inside one of the small shops, the small village shop that was more like a London newsagents. The woman at the counter smiled at him, her brilliantly blue eyes flashing behind her glasses and her short dark hair hanging around her jaw. _

_He felt suddenly self-conscious and closed his eyes, feeling a chill run over his back, down his spine and back across his sides. He paused and then opened them again, reaching for the closest thing he could find, a bottle of water and brought it up to the counter, placing a few coins, exact change, and left, holding the bottle between his two palms. As he was walking back towards the small inn, he found himself face to face with a man slightly taller than him, with dark hair and bright green eyes. Sherlock recoiled backwards as the eyes flashed at him. He knew. Of course he knew. It was him. The man who had cut freak into his stomach. Sherlock shivered and turned, but his arm was caught by the man, squeezing it almost vice like._

_"Freak." Was the only word he spoke, coupling it with a sharp toothed grin and a wink. Sherlock felt his blood freeze and panicked, pulling away and then sprinting, the bottle of water lying forgotten on the floor. He'd managed to get into the inn, up the stairs and into his room before that sick knot in his stomach got too much and his stomach rebelled against all the control he'd had over it._

That had been three days ago and he hadn't left his room since, scared of all the people around him and anyone that would hurt him and he was absolutely terrified that the man would find him again and ruin him. He shuddered at the thought of those hands on him again, the vice grip on his bicep. And now he was so weak he could barely stand, the room spun every time he opened his eyes, and this sick feeling deep in his stomach wouldn't go away.

It was why he didn't eat, well, this time. Usually he didn't eat because he was too busy and too preoccupied, but now he couldn't eat because he knew that if he did he would just bring it back up again. It was like a sickness, but he couldn't shake it off. The phone Mycroft had given him was lying on the side of the bed and suddenly it vibrated, scaring him.

_Sherlock, I had to, I hope you understand –MH_

Sherlock was confused, but didn't really care and ignored the text, throwing the phone on the floor and forgetting about it. Then he opened up his laptop and checked his email again, no new messages from anyone except Lestrade, and that was just a few lines.

_Sherlock where are you? We need you. There's a new case and we need your help, please call me when you get this. We need you on this one, we think Moriarty's involved.  
>Lestrade<em>

Sherlock checked the date and sighed, it had been sent three days ago, and there was one after it, a few words long.

_Don't worry. Not Moriarty. We solved it. No thanks to you  
>Lestrade<em>

The room had started swimming again, and Sherlock turned and curled up, clasping his hands around his knees and squeezing tightly so that it was all he could feel. Not the blows or their hands, nor the knife, just his own hands clasped tight against his knees with his head bowed down. His thick curly hair was tangled and mussed, and he repeatedly ran his hands through the curls in desperation. All he wanted was to go home, more than anything he wanted to be back in his own flat with John's presence and achingly familiar scent to soothe the nightmares away.

Sherlock felt as though his body had been put through a mangle, and he was very weak, so very very weak. His whole body had been pushed to the max over the past week, surviving on little food and a small amount of water, and hardly any sleep, just dozes that lead to him being racked in paroxysms of pain. And now, he felt so run down and exhausted that he could barely muster the effort to stand and walk to the bathroom, but somewhere in the depths of his entire being, he did. Sherlock left his hand on the tap and sent a stream of warm water running over his wrists. He cupped his hands and collected the sparkling liquid, splashing it over his face and running his wet hands through his curls, trying to flatten them slightly.

His skin was pale with stark circles beneath his eyes, and his brilliant grey orbs had lost their glimmer. He heard the trapdoor open and froze, his whole body standing to attention. He turned, his face still dripping with water and went to the door. The punishment he'd inflicted on his body was making it hard to stand, and a grey fog was hazing over his vision. It seemed fitting then, that as Sherlock turned and saw John Watson standing in the middle of a room in an inn, in a tiny village that people almost never knew existed, he passed out with Mycroft's words running through his mind.

_Sherlock, I had to, I hope you understand –MH_

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><p><strong>Does this stay in character? I really hope so but I never really know<strong>

**Review if you have the time (:**

**Much much love**

**Erin  
><strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**John, we finally have the reunion we needed :D  
>Word count: 1247 (this chapter)<br>Please review? (: And as always, enjoy.  
>AN: Sorry for the wait but I'm back at school now and this weekend I'm _super_ busy but I'll try to update as soon as I can**

**I do not own anything and all of my stories are unbeta'd except the first two chapters of this one, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.**

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><p>John saw Sherlock begin to fall and stepped forward quickly, catching him and then nearly dropping him again as he felt how light he was. Quickly, he shifted Sherlock's bodyweight into a more comfortable position and then placed him on the bed. The medical man in John wanted to fuss over him, check for bruises, ask how much he'd eaten and drunk, how he was; but the other part of John, the part that was angry at Sherlock just wanted to throw something at him.<p>

John knew that any sane person should call an ambulance, but instead he sat beside Sherlock, gingerly holding his hand. After a few long, painful minutes, Sherlock's eyelids began to flutter and John stepped back, wary. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, filled with fear and John took a slow, measured step backwards, holding his hands up as if to calm the taller man, showing that he wasn't a threat. Sherlock seemed to realise who it was after a moment, and turned away, ashamed.

Taking it as a sign that he should step forward, John did, placing his palms on the bedcovers and then, ever so slowly, sitting down so that he was comfortable. Sherlock had curled up into a tight ball, shaking ever so slightly as though sobbing and in vast amounts of pain. John had gently sat down on the side of the bed, turned away from Sherlock and staring at his hands, vision blurring as his mind worked slowly, turning over any new information he may have found. For a long time there was nothing but silence until John felt something bumping into the small of his back and turned, Sherlock's fingers curling slightly around his hip. John turned and sat on the bed properly, allowing Sherlock to pull himself slowly onto John's lap with John's hand twined with his.

"Hey." John whispered, reassuring Sherlock that he was real and did exist and was there, just making him feel better. He could feel Sherlock digging his nails into the skin of his forearms and he used one hand to stroke the jet black curls atop Sherlock's head. He could feel Sherlock tense before he even spoke what was on his mind.

"Don't. Please." The words were muffled, but the fact that Sherlock had used the word "please" shocked John for a moment, but only a moment.

"Sherlock why did you run?" Sherlock sat up, blinking and trying to muster a blank look to plaster over his face, but John could see through it. "Why?" He pressed gently, not wanting to push it too much, but just enough.

"I don't know. I regret it." It was surprisingly coherent for a man who had just collapsed, and John was slightly astounded.

"Why do you regret it?" John asked him, gently pushing the matter forwards, trying to reach the root of the problem. Sherlock looked away and then whispered, almost as if he didn't want to say it.

"I need you." He turned away and then ducked his head, biting on his lower lip. John paused, wondering whether to voice what he was thinking. The note was crumpled in his pocket and he drew it out carefully, smoothing the crinkled paper.

"Sherlock… I… I found this." He ventured, holding the note out with a trembling hand. Sherlock took one look at it and John thought he would pass out again, so he placed a hand gently on his back. "Are you okay? I'm sorry for scaring you…" Sherlock shook his head, angry at himself.

"No, John I should have told you but the need never arose." He paused, and John could almost see his brain working in his skull, the flash behind his eyes as he began to think. There was a pause and John could hear Sherlock take in a deep breath, as if he was trying to steel himself. "I just got… scared." John pulled himself closer to Sherlock and gently placed a hand on his knee, just a brief touch to bring Sherlock back to reality.

"If you don't want to talk about it, then I understand." John muttered and was surprised when Sherlock turned to him, placing his hands on John's thighs.

"I need to get it out, talk about it. Make it better again." Sherlock was shivering now, and John pulled his jumper off, tugging it gently down until it covered Sherlock's pale skin and thin shirt. Sherlock looked up at him gratefully and plucked at the loose thread on the bottom of the woollen garment.

"Talk to me, Sherlock, if you trust me enough. Talk to me." John placed his hand on top of Sherlock's and laced their fingers together. "Talk to me." Sherlock looked up as their hands tangled and there was a faint trace of a smile on his lips, a slight quirk there, less defined than usual but still there.

"I…" He paused, working out what he was going to say. "I was nineteen. And… I was different. At university. I never had a girlfriend or any interest in women and then it just seemed that I was gay… everyone thought so. And one day, I was on my way home from the university, to my rented flat and suddenly I was cornered… men, they tied me up and beat me, calling me gay and hurting me for it. It wasn't true. It isn't true." He looked away, tears prickling in his eyes and it was only when John reached out for his hand that found the strength to begin speaking again, words falling from his mouth.

"They attacked me, broke my ribs, bruised me all over and then…" John could see his throat working and he gingerly stroked the curls out of Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock couldn't go on and his skin had taken a sickly sheen, the sweat almost rolling down his face in streams. John pressed him gently, trying to coax the words past his lips, but he gained no response. Sherlock wordlessly gestured to his stomach and John gingerly pulled the shirt up, placing his palm flat on the thin jagged scars as Sherlock desperately tried to remain still. John could see the pulse pounding and racing in Sherlock's throat and he brushed a hand over the scars, but this made Sherlock lose his control and run to the bathroom, John following close behind.

"God Sherlock I'm so sorry." John whispered, running a hand through Sherlock's curls and rubbing soothing circles on his back, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he saw his best friend reduced to this. Sherlock pulled back a few minutes later, shaking and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, shivering and coughing. John pulled him close to his chest and let him break down, he was crying and shaking, hands curled into John's shirt. John lifted him and carried him to the bed again, laying down and letting Sherlock curl up against him, ignoring the damp patch spreading on his shirt.

"It's not your fault." This prompted John to speak again, a few quiet words that gently broke the strained silence.

"Sherlock, how much have you eaten this week?" Sherlock shuddered and shook his head, indicating _hardly at all_. John could understand that, he had seen what even trying to say what had happened to Sherlock and imagined it had happened very often that week. He pulled Sherlock tighter to his chest and just held him as he finally broke down.

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><p><strong>Tell me if you find any mistakes, I'm really really tired and a re-read through might kill me<strong>

**Review if you have the time (:**

**Much much love**

**Erin  
><strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Sherlock's Chapter again.  
>Word count: 1313 (this chapter)<br>Please review? (: And as always, enjoy.  
>AN: Sorry for the wait but I'm back at school now and this weekend I'm _super_ busy but I'll try to update as soon as I can. and I'm so sorry this chapter is 8 days late, I feel very bad. I am very sorry and I will try very hard to sort it so it's not so late next time.**

**I do not own anything and all of my stories are unbeta'd except the first two chapters of this one, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.**

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><p><em>Sherlock could feel the drag of nails along his shoulders, the harsh pain of the knife across his stomach, the warm trickle of blood over his sides and the raw scrape of skin on his wrists. He tried to draw in a breath but the pain in his ribs was too much and he started coughing, choking on his own breath out. He could feel their arms on him, their hands, the tip of the knife digging into his pale flesh and the cool wind rushing through his clothes. He dug his nails into the harsh and unforgiving pavement and tried not to cry out loud. All that could have tried to help him was gone and now he was just scrabbling at the harsh concrete, shards of glass from the alley embedded in the soft skin of his palms and across the bottom of his fingers. There was a burning sensation across his stomach as where the cuts were and he let out a sob, dry and heaving. He could feel the bite of the cold air and the sting of the grit under his body. The ropes around his wrists were digging in, and it hurt a lot, rubbing it raw and bleeding. He cried out again, hissing softly through his teeth.<em>

John pulled Sherlock close as he was in the depths of a nightmare, crying and clawing at his shoulder, digging his nails into the sensitive skin, leaving deep crescents. Sherlock was shaking and sobbing, trying to fight off John's grip, but John just pulled him ever closer, trying to soothe him. Sherlock pulled away from John, clawing at his stomach and rubbing his wrists. Every now and then he would cry out a name, but it was muffled and unclear and John would run a hand through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock tensed finally, crying out the name again, tears staining his cheeks. John pulled him close and whispered in his ear, just meaningless collections of sounds and syllables, over and over, a string of words that soothed Sherlock more than anything else ever could.

"I'm here. I'm right here." John muttered over and over into Sherlock's sweat drenched hair and pulled his quivering friend close, wrapping his arms around the tense, coiled spring that was Sherlock. Every now and then Sherlock would try to fight, try to hit out at John, but John would slowly tell Sherlock his name and that he wouldn't hurt him and that calmed him for a while. Sherlock finally awoke a couple of hours later, when his fighting had reached its peak and then stopped again as John realised that the memory ended where he passed out and that was where the dream ended too. Sherlock was drenched in sweat and his face was damp with tears, eyes puffy and swollen. He looked mortified.  
>"I'm so sorry." He whispered, lowering his gaze. John, who had been gently stroking his forearms frowned and the registered what he had said.<p>

"It's fine, it's all fine... Except..." He paused and hovered a finger over some needle marks on Sherlock's skin. Long faded and scarred over but still visible. "This." He finished slowly, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's arm and clenching. Sherlock bit back a soft cry, hands scratching at John's with nails that were ragged edged from biting.

"John please... Don't." Breathed Sherlock, pushing John away. John shook his head minutely.

"Let me see." Reluctantly, Sherlock allowed John to run his fingers over the track marks, flinching as he pressed against the most recent scars and nearly convulsing when his other hand traced the bruises that weren't there. "I'm sorry" He whispered into Sherlock's curls, pulling him close again.

"No. No it's fine. It's not real." There was a brief, tense pause as John gathered Sherlock up onto his lap and Sherlock calmed down, clinging to John and trying to relax.

"Sherlock… when did you…" John touched the most recent track mark scar lightly with the tip of one finger and it sent ice cold thrills down Sherlock's spine. "When was the most recent?" John asked him, still resting his fingertip on Sherlock's arm.

"I…" Sherlock swallowed thickly and then talked, his voice abrasive from lack of use. "It was a few months before I met you. Lestrade found out and made me stop. The drugs bust… it was for a reason. He knows what I'm like. Only now I have you I haven't needed the drugs." John didn't look at Sherlock, he was in awe of the speech he had just made and he felt his throat well up.

"I didn't… I didn't know I had this effect on you." John murmured softly into Sherlock's hair, soothing him carefully and breathing in his unique scent.

"You do, John. No one… No one stops the noise in my head like you." John didn't speak, but just held Sherlock close to his chest, soothing him with his presence. Sherlock slowly fell asleep again, and John watched his breathing become hitched as he entered the nightmare state again. It broke John's heart to see Sherlock like this, the icy detective who never showed emotion, so openly broken and weak, collapsed in John's lap and shaking with supressed sobs.

"Oh Sherlock I am so sorry this happened to you. So so sorry. You never deserved this, never." John whispered as Sherlock trembled, he could see that Sherlock wasn't really asleep, his eyes were open and he was gazing up at John with absolute trust.

"I deserved it… I was… insufferable. I know that. I deserved it." John sighed and stroked Sherlock's hair with one hand.

"No Sherlock, no one deserves what happened to you. I don't care how insufferable you were or how much everyone hated you. You did not deserve that." Sherlock tried to push away from John and John let him, sat on the bed and observed his friend's torment.

"I did. John I… I saw him again." John's whole stature changed and his bristled, tensing and feeling a low growl rise in his throat.

"When? Where?" He spat the words out and Sherlock flinched away, almost scared.

"A couple days ago, here. No one knows I came here before. No one. How could he know?" Sherlock seemed scared again, almost to the point of tears and there was a brief flicker in his eyes that John recognised.

"Mind over matter." Whispered John as Sherlock tried to control his stomach, feeling every spasm of muscle under his rough hands. "Mind over matter, you can do this. You're Sherlock, of course you can do this. Just keep breathing." John remembered every shred of his medical training and he was using it now, calming Sherlock. "Breathe in and out. In and out. In for seven seconds and out for eleven. Just breathe, you'll be okay." Sherlock fought the sensation in his abdomen under John's guiding words and managed to draw in a deep breath, in for seven seconds and out for eleven again. He took ragged breaths but his heart rate started to slow again, almost back to normal, though John could still see the pulse pounding in his throat, just visible under the pale skin.

"Sorry." Sherlock whispered, and this made John's heart break more, Sherlock had never apologized for anything, merely pointed out that he'd made John be disappointed in him, but never apologized.

"Don't be. But Sherlock…" John trailed off, unsure how to finish. "We need to get you home. Tomorrow." Sherlock stiffened under his hands but John smoothed down his arms again, trapping Sherlock's hands and lacing their fingers together.

"T-Tomorrow?" Sherlock whispered, looking terrified.

"Tomorrow. I want you home, Sherlock. Where I can look after you. I want you home."

"I…" Sherlock paused and then buried his face into John's shoulder, speaking so quiet he can barely hear it himself, but somehow John does too. "Okay."

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><p><strong>Tell me if you find any mistakes, they're all mine and mine alone. And I just finished I'm <em>so<em> sorry that this is late.**

**Review if you have the time (:**

**Much much love**

**Erin  
><strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**John's Chapter again.  
>Word count: 1387 (this chapter)<br>Please review? (: And as always, enjoy.  
>AN: Late. Sorry. So very sorry, my muse died. I considered a funeral but then he "Reichenbach Fall"ed me and came back again. It's okay. I thought Mycroft needed to show his face again.**

**I do not own anything - this chapter has been beta'd a little**

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><p>Sherlock had fallen asleep in Mycroft's car on the way back, his head against John's shoulder. John ignored Mycroft's pointed glances and kept one hand twined with Sherlock's for when he felt the stabbing pains and squeezed tightly, whimpering in John's ear.<p>

"How is he?" Mycroft asked softly as Sherlock slept on, still holding John's hand like a lifeline.

"I've honestly never seen him worse in the time I've known him." John held Mycroft's gaze steadily, running a thumb over Sherlock's hand when he squeezed particularly tightly.

"No, I have to admit, I've never seen my brother come so undone. You must mean a fair bit to him, he's never told anyone what happened to him that night, not even me, not properly at least." There was a sick fascination on Mycroft's face.

"If he trusted me, I won't betray him." John's voice was steady as he watched Mycroft carefully, but he couldn't maintain the gaze, as Sherlock whimpered and pressed against him, digging his nails into John's palm. "Hey, hey I'm here. Shh... It's okay, I'm here Sherlock, it's okay." Sherlock was half awake, and he pressed his face against John's coat, allowing John to hold him close against his chest.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, and John felt his heart break a little.

"Don't be, you've done no wrong." There was a silence in which Mycroft stared pointedly at John and Sherlock, raising his eyebrows.

"Does Mycroft think I'm still asleep?" It was nearly inaudible, and John chuckled a little, shifting so that Sherlock was more comfortable.

"No, he knows you're awake. But you can go back to sleep." John told him softy, imperceptibly tightening his grip on Sherlock and adjusting how he was sat.

"Okay." Sherlock nuzzled into John's coat and tightened his fingers in John's shirt. "Thank you."

"You're welcome; sleep well Sherlock, love you." The words just slipped out, natural on the tongue, and had Sherlock been more alert he would have pounced on it, but as it was, he squeezed John's hand softly and settled more comfortably on him.

"Love you too." He murmured; John thought nothing of it and dismissed it as Sherlock being Sherlock. After about ten minutes, Mycroft raised his eyebrows at John.

"Yes he's asleep."

"Oh good, I need to talk to you, be frank." A multitude of jokes ran through John's head, but he snapped a lid on them.

"What is it?"  
>"I need to know that Sherlock will not regress to his drug days."<p>

"I can't promise that, it's out of my control, but I will do all I can to prevent it happening."

"Good. You're also in control of all medical treatment of his from now on, including psychiatric care."

"Why?"

"There was no one better suited to the job than you."  
>"Right."<p>

"And finally, don't hurt my brother."

"I would never."

"You can promise this?"

"I can promise I won't knowingly cause him harm." Mycroft seemed satisfied with this, and nodded. Sherlock shifted in his sleep, now he had both his arms around John's neck. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and John ignored it, soothing Sherlock the moment he started to whimper softly in his ear.

"We're in London." Mycroft stated a few minutes later, still observing his brother and Sherlock as Sherlock gave a tiny, pitiful whine. John shook Sherlock's shoulder gently, not wincing as Sherlock dug his nails into John's back hard enough to draw blood.

"We're in London." John whispered and Sherlock nodded, not making a move to get away from John.

No, you don't have to move." Sherlock, who had tensed, settled down again.

"221B I presume." Mycroft's voice came, startling them.

"Where else?" John asked; a blank look on his face.

"Just enquiring." John shifted Sherlock in his arms slightly, the stinging from the nail cuts registering in the back of his mind. Agonising minutes passed before they pulled up at the familiar building, John felt himself smile without meaning to.

"Sherlock, we're home." John muttered in the ear of the consulting detective. Sherlock removed himself from John, but kept their hands held tight together. Sherlock got out first, pausing to look John in the eyes. "Just five minutes, I'll be there, promise." John told him softly, holding his gaze. "Go inside, put the kettle on, I'll be inside in five minutes." John had felt Mycroft's gaze on him, and knew what it meant. Sherlock still looked unsure.

"I just want to talk to our esteemed doctor, brother, five minutes as I promised." Sherlock looked distrustfully at Mycroft, but John touched his arm and smiled.

"Five minutes, promise." Sherlock nodded, staring at my Mycroft with an almost normal look of arrogance, but John could see that all was not right. "Promise." Sherlock walked away, into Baker Street and closed the door behind him.

"John."

"What do you want?"

"My brother... Needs you."

"I know."  
>"No, you don't understand. He's never let anyone in before."<p>

"I know."

"Hurt him and I will end you."

"We're not..." John realised that Mycroft thought what everyone else did, and it irritated him. "We're not a couple."

"I am aware of this; but the point remains. He is my brother, and if you hurt him, I will do everything in my power to end you."

"Mycroft; I would never hurt him."

"You can promise?" So this is what the conversion before was about, he didn't mean physical harm, he meant hurt Sherlock in a much worse way.

"I can promise." John looked at his watch pointedly. "Now as much as that was an illuminating conversation, I feel I should really get back to the man in question."

"Don't hurt my brother, doctor Watson."

"I've already stipulated that I won't." John was tense; he leapt out of the car and stepped inside the threshold of 221B, already ascending the stairs and opening the front door to their flat.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was soft as he stood by the kitchen sink, hands clasped around a mug of tea.

"I'm here." John saw a mug of tea on the side, his army mug by Sherlock's left elbow. He picked it up and took a sip, observing Sherlock from his position by the fridge.

"What did Mycroft want?"

"You already know." Sherlock watched him with his eyebrows raised a little.

"Yes, unfortunately I do."

"Unfortunately?"

"I don't need Mycroft to do my dirty work for me."

"Oh..."

"John I know you would never hurt me. I know you wouldn't, not intentionally."

"I would never hurt you. I promise." Sherlock looked so vulnerable and scared, that John stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.

"I'm scared." John felt his heart break slightly and held him close, stroking his hair.

"Don't be; I won't let you get hurt again, I won't let them hurt you."

"But he found me, he found me and he scared me. I don't want to be around you, put you in danger, what if they hurt you too?"

"Sherlock, I've killed a man for you, and I barely knew you then. I'd do it again now, they won't hurt me."

"They might."

"I promise you that I'll be fine and that I won't let you get hurt."  
>"You can't promise me that."<p>

"Shush." John rubbed circles on Sherlock's back and kissed his forehead, his cheek and then gently his lips. "I promise. Now go to bed." Sherlock had frozen the moment John's lips had touched his own, and stood still, watching John. John had pulled back, it could hardly have been counted as a kiss, but Sherlock had felt it. "They won't hurt you or me." Sherlock still stood, tensed. "What's wrong?"

"You... You kissed me."

"I did. I'm sorry if it was inappropriate." Sherlock sighed and rested his head against John's shoulder.

"It was... It was nice." John smiled against Sherlock's neck.

"Good, you're safe with me now. I promise; now go to bed." He took Sherlock by the hand and led him into his room. "I'm just upstairs if you need me. Shout if you want me, okay?" John kissed the top of Sherlock's head.

"Okay." Sherlock settled on his bed, his legs crossed, and stared at the door as John left, watching the shadows lengthening under the windows and by his door, until he lay back and fell into an uneasy sleep.

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><p><strong>It did get Beta'd a little, emphasis on little, so any mistakes are probably mine; if you find any let me know (:<strong>

**Review if you have the time (:**

**Much much love**

**Erin  
><strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**Sherlock's Chapter again.  
>Word count: 1462 (this chapter)<br>Please review? (: And as always, enjoy.  
>AN: Thought I'd make up some lost time here, one day! I got really inspired at school todaaayy :3**

**I do not own anything**

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke up to the feeling of their hands on his wrists and became aware that he'd shouted, covering his mouth with his hand. He wondered if he'd woken John with his shout, and tended as he heard movement upstairs. But after a while, it calmed and Sherlock tried to control his racing heart rate. There was a brief moment where he was calm, but then he felt their hand again and jolted awake; he must have been drifting since he first woke up.<p>

He was crying, his cheeks wet with tears and his skin flushed, so exhausted and hurting that he could hardly breathe. He hardly moved, but he knew where he wanted to go, and it took a few moments before he felt that he wouldn't crash the moment he stood. Gingerly he stood and placed his feet on the carpet, pushing himself upright. He took a few steps, swaying a little, but then managed to regain his balance and strode to his door, opening it and then clicking it shut behind him.

"John?" His voice was barely more than a whisper and he placed his foot on the stairs to get to John's room. He heard no response but ascended the stairs anyway and opened the door, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. John was sat on his bed, his eyes narrowed.

"What is it?" Sherlock recoiled at his voice, worried that he'd woken him. "I was awake anyway, it's okay. Come here." John read people very well and Sherlock relaxed a little.

"I didn't mean to... I..." He shuffled over to John on the bed and sat down next to him, folding his impossibly long legs up underneath him.

"I said it's okay." Sherlock let John touch his hand softly. "I'm here. Was it the same again?" Sherlock rested his head heavily on John shoulder.

"As always." John stroked Sherlock's hand with the pad of his thumb.

"How bad?"

"Just their hands. And their voices."

"I thought it would stop now you're home"

"It's never happened here before." Sherlock lied easily, his hand clenching on the bedcovers.

"I guess it means that it's worse now."

"Yes..." Sherlock could remember vividly the days before John arrived, waking up screaming every night and then wandering around the street of London until it was a reasonable time to wake up, and it was around this time when he nearly went back to drugs, but Mycroft intervened and told him to get a flatmate. Now he had John it was better, but on the first few months when he moved in he remembered waking up, breathless and crying but able to settle down and go back to sleep without any fuss.

"Still with me?" John rubbed his hand again.

"Yes, I haven't gone anywhere." He rested his head against John again and felt himself drifting to sleep, but he clenched his hands so that it was gripping John's forearms tightly.

"You can sleep, I'm here."

"No, please I can't. I can't. I can feel it and I don't want to." John's brow crinkled as he observed Sherlock.

"They didn't just beat you up did they." It was a statement, and Sherlock hung his head. He'd tried, for the most part successfully, to block that part from his own memory.

"No." John gave a quiet sigh and wrapped both his arms around the shivering consulting detective.

That's why you don't take rape cases." Sherlock nodded against John's neck.

"Makes it worse." John took his hand and stood up.

"Stand up a second; I want to hug you properly." Sherlock pushed himself up and practically fell into John, letting him wrap his arms around him. "I'm sorry this happened to you."

"Can I stay in here with you?" John pulled away and studied Sherlock critically.

"Of course, just stay there a moment." John quickly sorted out the bed and pulled the duvet back, sitting on the edge. Sherlock looked a little confused. "Come here." Sherlock looked down at his feet.

"I only meant just stay in the room, the floor would have been fine."

"You'd have made a huge fuss in the morning, and besides, I find if I can't sleep, sleeping next to someone helps."

"Are you sure? I don't want to hurt you." John lay back and held a hand out to Sherlock, who took it cautiously. Gently, Sherlock lowered himself onto the bed and sat down, pulling his legs up underneath himself. John coaxed him towards him and pulled him up close, Sherlock curled up, resting his cold feet on John's legs.

"You won't hurt me." John cuddled him close, rocking him slightly. "Here with you, and for you, I promised your brother." Sherlock swallowed thickly.

"I don't want you to feel obligated to stay with me." John touched Sherlock's wrist gently, frowning as he felt a small, raised line there.

"I'll stay, for me." He felt Sherlock draw a deep breath in as his fingers danced over the small ridge but didn't push it. Sherlock stayed curled up, John wrapped around him in a warm and gentle embrace, one hand carelessly resting over Sherlock's back and shoulders, the other twined with his. Sherlock felt safe, wrapped in John's warmth, his face pressed against his chest. He felt himself falling a little before three, but he let himself, squeezing John's hand very righty before and receiving a reassuring kiss on his forehead in response.

* * *

><p>When he woke, it was from a blissfully dreamless sleep, and with John running a strong hand through his tangled black curls. He tried to scrunch his eyes closed and fall back asleep, because he thought that John would panic if he was awake, instead he felt John laughing beside him.<p>

"Sleep well?" John asked carefully, still stroking his hair.

"Yes." Sherlock replied softly, breathing in John's scent. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." Sherlock didn't believe him and pawed at his arms gently. "Really Sherlock, there's nothing there. You slept perfectly quietly and still; don't worry." He sighed and relaxed again as John stroked his hair. "How are you feeling? Up to some food; you haven't eaten for days."

"Not hungry."

"Sherlock you need to eat."

"I know."

"Just something small." John gazed at him imploringly. "Some rice?"

"I'll... A little." John beamed at him. "We'll start with rice, and when you feel a little better we'll move onto more calorific things."

"Okay." John stroked Sherlock's forehead gently.

"Get dressed into something comfortable." Sherlock nodded and padded back downstairs, into his bedroom and snapped the door closed behind him, it was a welcome sound. His legs were shaking, and he walked towards his bed, lying face down and screaming into the pillow so that John couldn't hear. It was a few moment before he was done screaming and sobbing hysterically; he had to put up some kind of face for John, even if it was a bad one.

He finished and wiped his tears away with the back of his hand as he got dressed, tugging a hand through the unruly curls that passed as his as hair. Sherlock was dressed in some loose trousers and a shirt that was buttoned up properly, all the way to his neck, not revealing the normal triangle of pale skin that was usually visible. He stepped out of his bedroom, clenching his fists so that the nails scraped his palms. John looked up, spooning a small amount of rice into a bowl and placed it down on the table.

"I'm not that hungry." Sherlock eyed the bowl with distaste.

"Just have a little, and if you feel sick I want you to tell me." Sherlock looked up at John, sat opposite and gently picked up the spoon. John, his John, his only friend in the world had made this and was worried about him, he owed it to him to try it.

"Okay." Sherlock lifted the spoon to his mouth and licked the rice off, swallowing it and holding himself perfectly still for thirty seconds calculating if he was going to lose control of his stomach or not.

"Breathe deep and slow, carefully, take my hand if you need to." Sherlock nodded, but he was in control of his stomach again now.

"I think I'm going to be okay." Sherlock offered a smile, it didn't quite reach his eyes and he cast them firmly downwards again, observing the pattern of the tiles. "John… what are you going to do about… him?"

"Sherlock, if I didn't have such strong moral principles, I would kill him immediately."

"But?"

"But it won't make you happy, it'll upset you because you're scared that I'll get hurt."

"Yes." John leaned over the table and kissed Sherlock briefly on the lips again.

"I love you."

* * *

><p><strong>No beta'ing here, nothing at all. It's sad really ):<strong>

**Review if you have the time (:**

**Much much love**

**Erin  
><strong>


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